Thursday, 26 April 2012


Question moves in me
To whom I do belong.

When I cannot stay in her breathing,
When I find no strong feet controlling,
When I am not in touch of tender tits,
When I have none to question within,
“What do you mean?
Do you find my Husband?
How funny you are.”
Wounds are hidden in old saddles,
Mind cannot forget reflections therein.

All those feelings come in her breathing,
I am sinking in her hair, eyes, breasts,
And her feet go forth with signaling
Sweet words do flow, adored in touching,
“What are you doing?” she says,
Her words are whispers, as if saying thanks,
And sweetly she bends, and says,
“How you get this power, I do not give it either.”
Gone are days, when she dares to embrace me.

Question moves in me,
To whom I do belong,
Had I not left the region of call, she does not leave.
Love appears in time of our loving sense grows
And captures it in regions of our body control,
That will make us awake all time we do follow.

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